My muse woke up today while I was thinking on some computer stuff (muse sounds kinda like an old pantaloon).

Argument : Was (is?) Rochester a hero (Jane Eyre)?

No! As simple as that. No critical stuff, no evaluation of character, nothing. The heart feels what it feels.

Just chew on it: you have raped your mother and killed your father (strikes a chord?) and all you think about punishing yourself is blinding yourself. That way you live the punishment and you take those basilisks away from the eyes of the world of flesh. And here is our Rochester in his Victorian mirth. Much like a Herculean Darcy. But I want to ask the hearts of Romantics this question: who on earth can live to expect the return of a girl whom he can’t have a hope to look at? Maybe Jane isn’t that aesthetic stuff but she’s his beloved afterall. Can one, hearing one’s beloved– knowing her love for oneself– still be able to bear a life of darkness where there is no image of his beloved? No hope of seeing her?

“True lovers” (and I encapsulate them in quotes of disgusting sarcasm) may mark that love doesn’t need eyes. I too, once, said that even blind people also fall in love. But what if those people got the filament of their eyes working? God have mercy!

Rochester wasn’t even brave to inflict upon himself the pain of suicide, though people think he redeemed himself by trying to save “the madwoman in the attic”. But that’s like saying, “I’ll bump your car and then get it fixed, deal?” and you’re great as well.

I was dreaming last night; perhaps just sleeping (though the word dreaming impresses upon the reader a sense of authenticity.) Eyes closed, hands tied, I felt I couldn’t take it anymore because I was missing someone I deeply love.

Mr. Rochester, die for shame.